


Seven Tears

by Amelia_Clark



Series: 30 Day Cheesy Trope Challenge [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean's also pretty depressed tbh, Depressed Castiel, Frottage, I do not care for Scotch, Kissing, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oral Sex, Selkie Dean, Star-crossed, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, baby seals, gratuitous cardigans, lobster and lighthouses, past lisa/dean, thank you Orkney Island tourist website
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel sipped his tea, gazed out over the beach, and was surprised to see a human figure walking slowly along the shore. As it grew closer, he saw it was a man, a beautiful one at that, dark-haired and tall; the man caught sight of him and stopped, turned his eyes away from the ocean. Something about the set of his shoulders seemed so defeated, so lost, Castiel forgot his lack of social skills and waved. "Hello," he called over the wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **#23: Mythical creature/human**   
> 

Every few years, Castiel got a snippy memo from HR about his unused vacation time; it always came as a surprise. He hated his job, really, reminding himself daily that if he wanted to be there, they wouldn't have to pay him—and since he could practically do it in his sleep, he spent most of his life half-awake, barely aware of the passage of time. And then he'd get one of these memos from Naomi, pointedly polite but disapproving nonetheless, and he'd have to take time off, go somewhere else and be forced to think about how miserable he was.

At least he could do it somewhere besides his apartment. He picked his destinations more or less at random; really, he'd only decided on the Orkney Islands at first because they seemed like a good setting for the chunky, oatmeal-colored cardigan his sister got him last Christmas. And as he scrolled through images online, he felt drawn to the islands in late fall, lovely and lonely. Pretty much the perfect moping spot.

So here he was, on day three of an epic mope. He was wrapped in the cardigan with a cup of milky tea, staring out over the sea from his rented cottage. It grew dark early this far north, and that suited him; he was spending a lot of time reading, going for solitary rambles over the cliffs, watching the sleek gray seals as they basked on skerries with their playful young pups. He knew he was wallowing, but here at least it was a comfortable melancholy.

He sipped his tea, gazed out over the beach, and was surprised to see a human figure walking slowly along the shore. As it grew closer, he saw it was a man, a beautiful one at that, dark-haired and tall; the man caught sight of him and stopped, turned his eyes away from the ocean. Something about the set of his shoulders seemed so defeated, so lost, that Castiel forgot his lack of social skills and waved. "Hello," he called over the wind.

The man looked over his shoulder, as if someone must have appeared behind him—but of course there wasn't, they were alone with the sea and the sky. "Hey," he called back, and came towards him.

Castiel didn't really mean to stare—it was his worst habit, why he had a reputation for oddity around the office—but God, that face. Finely cut lines, eyes that shifted between green and brown with the fading light, a generous mouth like a frozen kiss. When the man stopped a few feet away, Castiel managed a smile, another "hello."

"I'm Dean," the man said, reached out a hand. 

"Castiel," and he shook Dean's hand, mentally counting down the acceptable seconds to hold it.

"Are you enjoying the view?" Dean asked. His English was accented, but not local; the vowels were longer, more liquid. Castiel couldn’t place it.

Castiel was watching Dean's mouth shape the words instead of the landscape, and he blushed. "Yes, this is a lovely place."

"You're American. Here on holiday?"

"Yes. For a few weeks."

"Why in the world would you choose Scotland in the winter? Why not somewhere with sun and frozen drinks and women in bikinis? Just felt like having a Brontë-esque brood?"

Castiel laughed, surprised at Dean's cheek. "As a matter of fact, yes. I'm not that interested in frozen drinks, or women, actually." _Excellent work, Castiel, outing yourself to a stranger in the first five minutes. If he objects, you're far from help._

But Dean just raised an eyebrow, stepped closer. "Can I sit?" he asked, gesturing at the empty chair next to Castiel.

"If you'd like." Good, thought Castiel. He'll be next to you, not so distracting. Except Dean pulled the chair around to face him, away from the view, and slumped into the chair like he’d been walking for days.

“Are you happy?” Dean asked suddenly.

“What? That’s a bold question. Do you go around interrogating everyone you meet?”

“No,” said Dean. “But I’m interested. You don’t seem happy, but I could be wrong.”

Castiel paused, sipped his tea. “No, you’re right. I like it here—the islands are beautiful—but no, Dean, in general I’m not happy.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dean.

They sat, looking at each other, the salty wind from the sea ruffling their hair. Castiel wanted to reach out and smooth Dean’s down, touch that jaw, but instead he tightened his hands on his teacup, the warmth seeping through into his fingers.

“Maybe I can help?” asked Dean after a minute. “I don’t like to see people unhappy.”

“That’s—I suppose that’s kind of you, but we just met. You know it’s a strange thing to suggest, right?”

“I’m a strange person, Cas.”

“In that you nickname complete strangers?” Castiel said. Dean cracked a smile and shrugged. _God, he has dimples, I’m screwed._ “So am I, really. Hence, the sulky vacation.”

“It was a serious question, Cas. I know it’s weird, but I can’t help it—I see someone sad and I want to help. But only if you want.”

“How, though? You don’t know me. What would you even do?”

“You’re lonely. You would be less lonely if I were here, right?”

“That seems logical. Why would you want to stay?”

“Is that important?” Dean left his chair to crouch at Castiel’s feet. “I’m here, aren’t I? Let me try to make you happy.”

 _Ah, this is a dream,_ Castiel thought. _This isn’t real, he isn’t real, so it’s okay._ “Yes," he said, and Dean put his hands on Castiel’s knees, pushed himself up to half-standing, and kissed him.

His mouth was as soft and lush as it looked; once Castiel got over his shock he savored it, leaned into the kiss. It had been—shit, had it been actual _years?_ Who _was_ this man, where did he come from, why on earth was he doing this?

Dean pulled away, hand still on the nape of Castiel’s neck. “Do you want me to stay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” said Castiel, and he felt like he was waking up. “Come inside.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel's cottage was built to look old from the outside—irregular stone walls, flagged roof—but the interior was modern, with a brick fireplace and nondescript furnishings, except for a huge, heavy dining table that seemed to predate the house itself, its wood scarred with use. Dean was drawn to it immediately, running his hand over its rough surface, and Castiel couldn't look away from that hand, the reverence of its touch. He very badly wanted Dean to touch him like that.

Instead, he walked over to the stove. "Would you like some tea, Dean?" he asked.

"Do you have any Scotch? Tea feels wrong when the sun is setting."

"Uh, I think a bottle came with the house." Castiel rummaged through the cupboards, appreciating the excuse to remain with his back to Dean.

Except when he turned around, complimentary Scotch in hand, Dean had moved within arm's length again. Their eyes met, held, and Castiel had that strange feeling again, like dreaming and waking all at once.

Dean reached out and laid his hand over Castiel's on the bottle. "Thanks," he said.

"What are you doing?" Castiel said. "Why are you here?"

"Because you called me,” said Dean. Cas narrowed his eyes, confused, and Dean sighed, gently taking the bottle from his grasp. “It's hard to explain. Have a drink with me? I can make us a fire.”

Cas brought two glasses over to the couch in front of the fireplace; he hadn’t used it, since he couldn’t start a fire to save his life, but Dean seemed completely sure of what he was doing, stacking logs into the grate, tucking wadded newspaper into the gaps. He hummed while he worked—not the mournful folk melody Castiel would’ve expected of his demeanor, but an off-key rendition of Styx’s “Come Sail Away.” Castiel poured their drinks while his back was still turned, so Dean wouldn’t see the slight tremor of his hands.

When the fire caught, Dean grunted in satisfaction and joined him on the couch, toeing off his shoes and stretching his socked feet towards the cracking flames. _“Slàinte,”_ he said as he raised his glass and took a grimacing sip. He watched Castiel choke down his own drink and showed his dimples again. “Not your favorite?”

“It tastes more like dirt than I really like my liquor to taste,” Castiel admitted.

“It’s okay, Cas,” said Dean. “I’m not trying to get you drunk.” He tossed back the rest of his own and set the empty glass on an end table. “Can I kiss you again?”

“God, yes.” Cas put his drink on the floor and reached out for him.

The Scotch on Dean's tongue tasted of earth and salt, the land and the sea at once; his mouth was gentle but urgent, and Castiel felt a rush of heat that put the fire to shame. Castiel fell back into the cushions and Dean followed, shifting his weight to press their bodies together; Castiel's hand found his hip and pushed, and Dean smiled against his mouth and climbed onto him, knees slipping between Castiel's thighs.

Dean kissed him and kissed him, and Castiel kissed him back, hands tracing his ribcage with unashamed hunger. When Dean's cool fingers slipped beneath Castiel's shirt onto his burning skin, the last shred of Castiel's rational mind jolted awake, broke the surreal intensity of the moment.

"Wait," Castiel said. "Stop."

Dean froze, then sat up quickly. "What's wrong?"

"I don't do this. What we're doing, it doesn't make sense—I don't understand how I went from brooding on the beach to making out with a hot stranger in ten minutes, Dean. What do you want from me? Oh God, am I supposed to pay you?"

"No! No, I don't want your money, Cas. I know this is strange, I do." Dean ran his hands over his face and sighed. "I saw you sitting there, beautiful and sad like something in a fairy tale, and I wanted—you looked like you didn't have anyone, and I don't either, Cas. I thought maybe we could just forget about sense and not be alone for the night."

Castiel was still half-reclined on the couch, his whole body feeling the loss of Dean's, and yes, yes he would like to not be alone, just once. He was on vacation, after all; it was okay to have a fling, expected even, judging by the way his sister always asked "Did you meet anybody?" when he returned from his forced holidays.

"I think we could," said Castiel, and pulled Dean's mouth to his again.

Dean kissed down his neck, pushed up the fabric of their shirts to press their stomachs together; Castiel groaned at the contact and ran slow fingers up his spine. "Can I touch you?" Dean panted into his ear, and Castiel reached between them to unbutton his fly, take down the zipper with Dean's help. It took some mutual fumbling, but they managed to free both their cocks, and Dean held them together, working them over with long, slow strokes, gasping against Castiel's jaw.

"Come for me, Cas," he murmured. "Come for me, I've got you," and Castiel spilled over his hand with a cry. He reached down and shoved Dean's hand away from his cock to wrap his own around it, and Dean came a few thrusts later, collapsing onto him with a sigh.

‘Thank you,” said Cas, still breathless. “I really needed that, Dean.”

“It’s what I do,” Dean said, resting his cheek over Cas’s heart.

“Full-time, or just freelance?”

Dean laughed and pecked his cheek, went to the sink to wet a dishrag. “You don’t mind if I stay?” he asked, wiping down Cas’s stomach.

“No, please do.”

“Thanks.” Dean finished cleaning them off and tucked Castiel back into his pants, poured himself another belt of Scotch. “Cas? I need to tell you something, something about me you should know. It’s nothing bad,” he said hastily as alarm flashed across Castiel’s face, “it’s that you’re not going to believe it. But I want to tell you anyway. Will you just listen?”

Castiel shrugged and choked down a little more Scotch. “Sure, why not.”

“Thank you.” Dean fell silent for a moment, drank and stared into the fire; Castiel stared at Dean, committing the lines of his profile to memory in case he ever learned to draw. Dean turned his head to look at him, and Castiel was surprised to see fear in his eyes. “Cas,” he said, “have you ever heard of selkies?”


	3. Chapter 3

"Selkies?" Castiel frowned. He'd expected—no, he hadn't known what to expect, nothing about Dean was predictable. Still, this came out of left field. He had heard of selkies, though; they'd come up in the Orkney guidebooks. "The legend? Seals that can turn into women?"

"We're not all women," Dean said softly.

"We."

"Yeah." Dean ran a hand over his face, licked his lips. "I know, it sounds crazy. I sound crazy. But that's what I am, Cas. I'm not a seal, I'm not a man, I'm a selkie."

"Right," said Castiel, and retrieved his Scotch to drain the glass and pour himself some more. When he'd drunk that, too, he tried to speak again, but words wouldn't come. Instead, he turned Dean's face towards him so their eyes met again. That was better. He could believe any number of impossible things staring into Dean's eyes.

"Do you want me to go?" asked Dean.

Castiel shook his head, finding his tongue at last. "Keep going. Tell me why you're here."

"Here on land or here with you?"

"Just tell me everything, Dean." Moving closer on the couch, Castiel slid his fingers through Dean's own.

Dean looked down at their joined hands and continued: "You probably heard about seal-wives, how men would steal a selkie's skin to force them into marriage? That happens, ‘cause men are assholes, but I was called. Women here, if they're unhappy in love, they let seven tears fall into the sea, and a male selkie like me will come. So about four years ago, that happened to me—a woman named Lisa called me, and I shed my seal-skin and moved in with her and her son. And I loved her. God, Cas, I loved her so much, and we were happy for a while. A good year, I think."

"What happened?" Castiel asked.

“She moved on.” Dean sighed. “I don’t want to sound bitter, it’s not her fault. You’re not like us—you know how to fall out of love.”

“So you just broke up?” This was almost harder to believe than the rest of it: that someone would have Dean and let him go without being forced to.

“Yeah. It took a while. I didn’t want to leave, and I think she felt sorry for me. Because she knew I’d love her forever. That’s what she asked for, that’s what she thought she wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. Impulsively, he pulled Dean against him, leaning back on the couch; Dean came readily, resting his cheek on Cas’s chest. “Why are you still here, then? If Lisa left you, why didn’t you, uh, go back to the sea?”

Dean made a sound that would have been a laugh were there any humor in it. “I planned to, believe me. But first—well, she finally told me I couldn’t stay with her anymore, and I decided to go on a bender. That’s what you do, right, when your heart is broken? Drown your sorrows?” One hand tightened nervously in Cas’s cardigan, released it. “So I packed my bags—what little I’d owned as a human, and my sealskin—and I went to a pub and drank cheap liquor until I passed out. When I woke up, my things were gone, and so was my only way to get back home.”

"Shit, I'm sorry," said Castiel. He found himself rubbing Dean's back in small circles to soothe him; Dean's hand was shaking on Castiel's ribs. Why did he sound like he believed Dean's story? _Did_ he? He didn't know. But Dean had clearly been through a trauma and needed someone to listen; Castiel had never been needed that way before, and there was a rush to that, to being asked for comfort. Especially, he thought guiltily, by someone so beautiful. "So," he said, "when you said I called you, you meant it literally?"

"I did. Sort of. When I saw you, I could sense things about you: that you liked men, that you were lonely, that you wanted to be loved. And I thought, well, I can help with that. I can make you feel good, Cas. I can love you, if you want." In an instant, he was all over Castiel again, kissing him furiously, his mouth, his jaw, his neck.

Castiel could drown in this, he knew. It was true, everything Dean said: he wanted to be loved, needed it like air. He could take what Dean was offering, companionship and pleasure and devotion.

But Dean’s hands still shook, even as he tugged open Castiel’s fly, as he reared back to shed his jacket and shirts. His torso was sleekly muscular, and Castiel wanted to touch and lick every inch of it; he wanted to ignore the fear in Dean’s eyes and his own gut.

Instead, he grabbed Dean’s wrists and held them, pushed them up to sitting and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Not when you’re like this. It’s too—Dean, you’d take anyone right now, any close warm body. I want you, believe me—God, I want you so much—but I won’t take advantage of your desperation.”

“No,” said Dean, “no, c’mon, I’m fine. Fuck me, Cas, please.” He struggled in Castiel’s hold, tried to lean in and kiss him. It would be so easy to let him, but Castiel moved out of reach.

“Don’t make me be strong, Dean,” said Castiel unevenly.

Dean sagged back against the couch in defeat. “Fine,” he said. “I can leave. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” said Castiel. “I just don’t want you to fuck me out of some sense of compulsion. That feels wrong.”

“What do you want from me, then? I’m not good at much as a human, Cas. I was a good stepdad, I’m a great lay, but other than that I’m pretty useless.”

“Well, so am I. Minus the dad part, and I haven’t gotten rave reviews in bed either.” Dean raised an eyebrow at that, a flattering distraction. “If you don’t think you’re much of a human, tell me about your other life. Tell me about the sea.”

He stood up, extended a hand. “But tell me in bed, Dean. I want to fall asleep to your voice.”


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel dreamed of being under the ocean, of a different body, sleek and strong. He dreamed of cutting through the water like a blade, of waves wrapping him like a second skin.

Dean had had a family, there in the sea, but his memories of them were hazy; he'd been small when his mother had been taken, her sealskin stolen by a Faroese fisherman. After that they fell apart, his father taking to ever greater migrations—to Iceland, Greenland, Canada. Dean's brother was so young when their mother was abducted he hadn't yet lost his white baby fur, and in their father's frequent absences it was left to Dean to raise him.

"I still see him sometimes," Dean said, voice trembling. "There's a rock where he'll come and bask, I'll bring a bottle, we'll just sit there together. But there's no way for us to talk, really, and I know he's too frightened by what happened to me to spend time in human form. He keeps me here, though. Keeps me sane—I'd've just walked into the sea a long time ago if it weren't for knowing he'd miss me."

Castiel woke tasting salt, and realized there were tears on his face.

Dean stirred beside him but did not wake, legs twitching under the sheet like a dog's in its sleep. He whimpered, a little noise of loss, then burrowed into Castiel's side with a sigh.

Dean's story was impossible, Castiel knew this. Selkies weren't real—they were a myth, the uncannily human eyes of the gray seal merging with sightings of the Sami people clad in sealskin. He _knew_ this, but at the same time he believed Dean's delusions wholeheartedly, was totally willing to forsake logic for the stranger in his arms.

This should frighten him, surely, to be so far from home and so suddenly smitten. This wasn't like him at all.

But wasn't that the point of his being here in the first place? He wasn't happy with his sedate life, his tedious job, his barely furnished apartment. He didn't _want_ to be like himself, he just wasn't sure who he wanted to be instead. Why not be a selkie's lover?

So he pushed his rational thoughts away and woke Dean with a kiss.

He wanted to ease Dean gently into consciousness, so the kiss was small and soft; Castiel took Dean's lush lower lip between his own, traced it with the tip of his tongue. Dean opened to him like a flower to the sun, making a pleased little hum as he put his arms around Castiel, rolled onto his back to pull him on top.

They'd shed their pants to sleep, and the heat of Dean's skin through the thin fabric of his undershirt made Castiel gasp, his only thought _more, more._ Swiping his tongue deeper into Dean's mouth, he tugged Dean's thigh up to wrap around his hip, settling between his legs.

"Mmm," Dean sighed, and wrapped his other leg around Castiel, hooking his ankles behind his knees. "Do you want to fuck, or are you still convinced you'd be taking advantage?"

"I do, and I would be," said Castiel, and then Dean lifted his hips, ground against him. Gasping, Castiel dropped his palms to the mattress and pushed himself up, his lower body trapped by Dean's hold. He glared down at Dean, who batted his eyes innocently and then broke into a grin.

"I don't think it's fair that you get to decide," Dean said, continuing the slow roll of his pelvis. "If you didn't want me, that would be one thing. But this defender of my virtue thing is bullshit, Cas. You can't just welcome me into your bed and then set limits on what I'm allowed to want."

"What do you want?" asked Castiel, dizzy with arousal.

"I want you naked," Dean said, and slipped both hands past Castiel's waistband to clutch at his ass. "I want you naked, and I want your hands on me."

Castiel nodded. "Yes," he said. "You too. Let me go." When Dean dropped his legs to the bed, Castiel pulled back to shuck off his shirt. Dean just watched him, unmoving. 

"I said you too, Dean," Castiel said. "Take those off."

"I thought maybe you'd want to?" Dean rolled closer to him, hitched up his leg again. "I want you to touch me. Wanted it when I first saw you."

At this, Castiel couldn't help but laugh. "What, a whole twelve hours ago?" Then, before he knew the thought was in his head—had been in his head all the while: "Did you bewitch me, Dean?"

"What?"

"You heard me, Dean. Did you cast a spell on me to make me feel this way?"

Dean opened his mouth, closed it again, licked his lips. "Did you?" Castiel asked again.

"A little," Dean whispered. "Only a little."

Stiffening, Castiel pushed Dean's thigh away and held him at arms' length. "So none of this is real," he said. "This is an illusion. I don't really feel what I feel."

"No!" Dean sat up, clutching at Castiel's wrists. "It's not like that, Cas, I didn't do it on purpose."

"Why would I believe that?" said Castiel, suddenly afraid. "Why have I believed anything you say, Dean?” He wrenched his hands from Dean's grasp and backed off to fumble beside the bed for his clothes—he had to get out of here, had to get away.

"Cas, please, wait," Dean said. "You have to let me explain, you don't understand. I can't help it." Castiel didn't answer, just pulled his pants on without looking at him. "I didn't do anything to you, Cas, I swear. Everything you feel—it's overwhelming, I know it is, because I feel it too, Cas. That's how it works."

Castiel couldn't find his shirt, which was ridiculous since he'd been wearing it only a minute ago. He was trying not to listen, but Dean only kept going: "Selkies, when we're in human form, we're meant to be with a human—so when I meet someone I'm attracted to, who's attracted back, it's like we both fall under a spell. You feel like you're dreaming, right? Like we've known each other for years? So do I. It’s not that it’s not real, it’s just— _more_ than it would be with another human so fast."

There was the shirt, under the bed.

But Castiel found himself reaching for Dean instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQmr3rm5_blGX6l9xLmM-ksMzqfEkGbFi7bQQDtC9YaB7jYEVn3E-dDWB_X) is what selkie!Sam looked like as a baby. I KNOW AUGHHHH


	5. Chapter 5

Kissing Dean again felt like falling, like diving off a cliff and trusting the water to welcome rather than wound. Dean's sigh was relieved, and he lay back on the bed, a gentle hand on Castiel's back urging him down. 

Castiel pulled away to breathe, and found himself trapped in Dean's gaze. "So," Castiel said, "we're mystically mated, then? Like a bad romance novel."

"Ugh, no, don't say 'mated,'" said Dean, wrinkling his nose. "Bonded, maybe."

"Connected," said Castiel, intertwining their hands.

"Attached," Dean answered, slipping a thigh between Castiel's.

"Wrapped up in each other," Castiel replied, grinding against that pressure.

"Mmm, not enough," said Dean, "You over the white knight thing, Cas? Gonna fuck me?"

Castiel broke away from their shared daze enough to have an unwelcome realization. "Uh, I can't," he admitted, "I didn't bring any lube."

Dean puffed out an irritated breath. "You're still being chivalrous. Just go slow, I’ll be fine."

"You can't make me fuck you, Dean," said Castiel, and a cold tendril of doubt curled at the base of his neck. Because Dean could, of course—he was trusting this possibly delusional man he'd just met not to hurt him.

But Dean just laughed and shook his head. Castiel smiled back and joked, "I suppose blowing you would also be too chivalrous, perhaps I'll just get dressed and go for a walk." He reached for his shirt again, which served mostly to put more of his upper body in contact with Dean's while he stretched.

"Oh no, you’re not, you’re staying right here," said Dean, wrapping both legs around Castiel’s and holding on tight.

“I am,” Castiel agreed. "Although I'll have to move at least a little to get your clothes off."

"And to get my cock in your mouth, unless you're a lot more flexible than I think." 

Castiel laughed, rose up to kneeling, Dean’s legs falling slack to either side. He reached back to find Dean's ankles, ran both hands up the ridge of his shins and over his knees, the meat of his thighs, under the worn cloth of his boxers to the sharp corners of his hipbones. Dean's eyes fluttered closed as Castiel touched him, a faint smile on his face. "I like that," he murmured, "like your hands on me."

"Yeah?" Castiel asked, "More?" A rhetorical question, he knew; there was a comfort in the limited vocabulary of lovemaking, the way real conversation turned predictable, became a litany of affirmation, intensity, entreaty. There was nothing new to say during sex, but the clichés were never dull.

"Keep touching me," Dean said, voice mostly breath; and of course Castiel did, this time spreading his hands wide over Dean's stomach beneath the shirt he still wore, where his skin was softer, warmer. A flush spread up into the hollow of Dean’s throat; his eyes were still shut tight, hands clutching at the sheets.

Slowly, Castiel's fingers crept up to the vault of Dean's ribs, tracing them one by one before laying a palm over his heart, its pounding palpable even through muscle and bone. He brushed the pad of his thumb over a nipple, and Dean shivered; shoving fabric aside, he fastened his lips over it and sucked, and Dean moaned.

"Yes," panted Dean, "yes, please," and he reared up suddenly to pull the shirt over his head. Castiel pushed him back down, mouthed at the other nipple, grazing it with his teeth; at that, Dean made a small, broken sound and raised one hand to the back of Castiel's head, pulling him closer.

So he continued, licking and biting while he worked Dean's underwear down to mid-thigh, pressed his abdomen against the hard heat of him. Dean gave his head a weak push, a suggestion rather than a command, but one that Castiel was happy to fulfill; moving down to settle between Dean's spread legs, he skimmed a knuckle up the shaft of Dean's cock, followed the same path with his tongue, and took the head in his mouth.

"Fuck," Dean said, and he kept speaking, but in words Castiel had never heard before, the cadence like song, like the rising of the tide. When Dean came, his body pulled taut like a bow, broke like a wave, and it was almost enough to bring Castiel over too.

With more energy than he had any right to possess at the moment, Dean dragged him up to face him, tongue searching out his own taste on Castiel's lips. Together, they stroked Castiel to his own orgasm; Dean pushed sticky fingers into Castiel's mouth, and he sucked them clean without a thought.

Five minutes later, Castiel had drifted back into sleep. This time, he dreamed he stood on the shore, watching Dean swim away from him, farther and farther until he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

A week passed, and every morning Castiel was shocked to find Dean still there beside him. They spent their days and nights drowning in each other, coupling wild as a storm at sea, the lulls between tranquil as a tide pool. Dean rarely strayed from the cottage, but Castiel made a few trips into town for provisions. On the first such excursion, he'd hardly set the bags down before Dean was rummaging through them for lube, persuading Castiel to take him right there on the table.

And then Castiel realized his departure had been looming all the while, and was in fact two days away—it was his first thought upon waking, and he lay there, stricken, as Dean slept on. He had almost forgotten he didn't belong here, in a cottage by the sea with his fairy-tale lover; he'd nearly convinced himself he wasn't having a fling, but falling in love.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked over their breakfast of tea and toast. "You've got your brooding Brontë-hero face on."

"I have to go back," Castiel said, and Dean's face fell.

"Oh," he said. "I forgot, somehow. That you don't live here."

"So did I," sighed Castiel. "Nothing for it, though." He groaned. "Shit, I have work on Monday, that'll be a rude awakening."

"You don't like your job? Whatever it is, I mean." Dean laughed. "Never had that conversation, did we? Careers, siblings, all that first-date stuff."

"I sell ad time for radio," Castiel said. "I literally sell empty space, Dean, can you imagine anything less necessary to the world?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Cas, I'm an ex-selkie who does day labor and sleeps on the beach. If you’re unnecessary, what does that make me?"

"Maybe 'necessary' is the wrong word. But it's hardly anything to feel passionate about."

"Then quit," said Dean quietly, and sipped his tea. "Stay with me."

His words fell into a sudden silence between them. In Castiel's mind, they clattered onto the table like a handful of tacks, shining and sharp. "That's not possible," he said after too long.

"You're just going to walk away from this. From me," Dean said after another painful pause. "To go back to a place and a job where you're not happy. How does that make sense?”

“I have a life in Illinois, Dean. It's not the best life or the happiest life, but it's mine. I can't change everything about my life because I met a hot guy on vacation."

A flicker of movement in Dean's jaw as he clenched his teeth and swallowed visibly, as if choking down angry words. By the time he spoke, his eyes were sad. "So I'm just a nice memory to take home as a souvenir. Even though you know, even though I told you—what I am, what this is for me. That we're bonded, Cas, and breaking that is going to hurt. I thought it would hurt both of us, but I guess not."

They'd been sitting close at first, knees brushing and shoulders knocking as they ate together; now Castiel realized he'd looked away, moved away, without even knowing it. And Dean had too. The atmosphere, that dizzy rush of their shared dreamworld, felt heavy and charged as the seconds between lightning and thunder. "You're not being fair, Dean," Castiel said evenly. "Of course I'll hurt when I leave you. Don't tell me I won't. Besides," he continued, and here was the thunder, rumbling through his voice, "you could come with me. Why do you stay here? You've got no job, no people. Nothing ties you here—you can't ask me to burn my own bridges when you've got none to begin with."

Dean rose to his feet and slapped a hand down on the table; for a moment, Castiel feared he would strike him, but he just stalked away to stare into the ashes of the fireplace. "How the fuck can you say that to me, Cas?" said Dean, anger and hurt both evident in his tone. "You know I can't leave here. My brother is here, the ocean where I grew up. My home is here, even if I can't go back. Don't fucking talk to me about fair."

Castiel wanted to argue, but he was not so far gone he couldn't see that Dean was right, that neither of them had the right to ask anything so great of the other. Not on the strength of a week's affair, however intense it seemed. He crossed to the couch behind Dean and sat down with a sigh. "We're at an impasse, then."

"Yeah. Damned if we don't, damned if we do." Dean cast a wary glance over his shoulder. "I should leave now."

"Please don't," Castiel said. "We've still got some time—that is, if you want to stay."

Dean turned, arms folded, and regarded him warily. "Have you been listening to anything I said? Yes, I want to stay with you. For longer than two more days, but if that's what we've got, than that's what we've got." Slumping onto the couch, he rested his head on Castiel's shoulder; Castiel reached up to stroke his hair.

"Can I ask you one thing, Cas?" Dean murmured, and Castiel nodded. "Do you really believe me? That I'm, you know, not human? Do you think I'm telling the truth, or do you think I'm crazy?"

"I don't know," Castiel answered honestly. "I don't not believe you, if that makes sense. How much does that matter to you?"

Dean shook his head and edged closer, nosing into the hollow of Castiel's collarbone. "I don't know either," he said, "but that's better than nothing."

The night before Castiel left, Dean rode him hard and fast, his hands tight around Castiel’s wrists. He never stopped speaking, words pouring out in that language made for water and not for air, but he never met Castiel’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choose Your Own Adventure! If you like your endings good and angsty, just stop here and assume they never saw each other again! If you're a sap like me, stick around for another chapter. :D


	7. Chapter 7

It took a full day to travel back from the Orkneys. Castiel spent the flight staring down at the geography separating him from Dean; first the ocean and then the land, thousands of miles of it, city lights huddled like fireflies in a jar, the streaky glow of highway traffic strung like necklaces between them. And then, as he followed dawn across the continent, the gray-brown blankness of the winter countryside, featureless as the surface of the sea. 

Castiel lived there, in the vast central Plains, surrounded by fields fallow with the season, the scrubby remnants of soybeans and corn glazed over with ice. For weeks after his return, he'd go walking out past the edge of town, the dead vegetation cracking under his shoes, his face gone numb with cold. He was wallowing again, and this time there was no comfort in it.

"Did you meet anybody?" Anna had asked when she picked him up at the airport; "yes," he'd answered, "and then I left." He didn't elaborate further, and she didn't press him. But she kept calling, kept showing up at his door with lemon bars or comic books, trying to cajole him out of his depression. Castiel was grateful for her efforts, and he enjoyed her company; they both knew it wasn't enough.

After three weeks back home, he quit his job. "Why, Castiel?" Naomi asked at his exit interview, her face all regret though Castiel knew she'd never liked him. "You've been with us for twelve years, and no one's ever been dissatisfied with your work."

"Except for me," he told her.

Castiel's savings were sufficient for a few months' unemployment. At first he spent his new-found leisure reading every selkie story he could get his hands on, trying to find one with a happy ending. When that proved fruitless, he took up drinking instead, wincing down gallons of Scotch, chasing the peaty flavor of Dean’s mouth that first night.

"I'm worried about you," Anna said over the phone one day, when she'd called to find him slurring his words before noon. "It's like you've given up, Castiel, and I don't know why. Are you even looking for another job?"

"Nope. Don't wanna," Castiel said from where he lay on his kitchen floor. He rolled over on his side to rest his throbbing temple against the cool tiles.

Anna sighed. "You don't seem to wanna do much of anything these days."

Castiel grunted into the receiver and considered this. He wanted Dean, of course, but since that was impossible—"Wanna see the ocean," he said finally.

"Should've thought of that before you were born in the Midwest," grumbled Anna, and then sighed again, with a little hmmph at the end. "Do you want to take another trip? I've got time off due, we could head someplace sunny."

"Don't want sunshine," Castiel elaborated, "I want...rocks and fog and shit."

"Like the Orkneys, you mean? Like where you met this person you won't tell me about?"

"He wasn't a person," said Castiel before he thought better of it, "I mean, he was a person, but he wasn't a human."

"Uh. What?"

"Was a selkie, Anna. I fucked a selkie."

"Holy shit, what happened to you over there?" Anna said, and if there'd been concern in her voice before, it had turned to fear.

"Told you. Met a selkie. We fell madly in love, and then I left, and now I'm never gonna see him again." Pulling his knees up into a fetal position, Castiel stared at the gritty baseboard under his kitchen counter, and wondered if it would ever come clean. "So yes, thank you, I've fucking given up."

"Oh, honey," his sister said. "Do you—would it help to go someplace that reminds you of him, though? Wouldn't that make things worse?"

He noted through his alcoholic haze that she was ignoring the selkie part of his confession, which was probably for the best. "I don't think it will, actually," he told her. "I need to get away from this half-assed excuse for an existence, Anna. While I was there, while I was with him—I hadn't known quite how dismal and petty my life was. I felt like someone different. And I think that's who I really want to be."

"So you quit your job and barely leave your house, and you're wasted at ten o'clock in the morning. You're right, that's not dismal at all."

"I'm having some trouble with the follow-through," he admitted.

She took him to Maine, to shores as starkly beautiful as the one he'd left behind. Castiel's mood lifted as soon as he tasted salt on the wind; this longing for the sea must be part of his bond with Dean, he thought, breathing in frigid, briny air and exhaling in a great puff of steam. "This is better," he said. "I feel at home here. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said, shivering next to him. "You can repay me by sending me someplace at least fifty degrees warmer for my birthday, deal?"

Castiel laughed—God, when was the last time he'd laughed without effort? "Deal, sister mine. Let's go back to the inn, I believe we're contractually obligated to eat our weight in lobster while we're here."

"Yep. Lobster and lighthouses, that's all I know about Maine." Anna gave him an impulsive hug before they headed back up the beach. "I'm glad you're happier here, Castiel. Even if I am freezing."

The next day, they set out on a driving tour of the coast, leaving their inn in Portland after breakfast (lobster fritatta) and making their way north and east. Bug Light, Portland Head Light, the Two Lights of Cape Elizabeth—the towers stood in romantic solitude, keeping their vigil over the stones and the sea. Castiel was captivated. "Says here there are no keepers anymore," Anna said, bent over a guidebook. "All the ones still active are automated. That's kind of sad."

It was, thought Castiel; lighthouse keeper would be the perfect new occupation for him, lonely but useful. He'd speak to no one, wear cable-knit sweaters year round, live on canned goods and local seafood. "Yeah, that's too bad," he said aloud.

At Pemaquid Point, they climbed to the top of the Light, eight stories up to a beacon still lit at night. Castiel leaned over the railing, gazing out over the furrowed bedrock that led down to the crashing surf. 

Anna laid a hand on his shoulder, startling him away from the view. "Wind's a bit much for me," she said, "I'll be in the museum next door, okay?" He nodded, turned back to the sea.

That's when he saw it coming—a dark shape cutting through the water, a hundred yards off shore and coming in fast. He realized with a pang that it was a gray seal; he'd forgotten they lived on this side of the Atlantic as well, though this was the first he'd seen. It moved with almost human purpose, heaved its bulk up on shore.

And then it shrugged off its skin like it was taking off a coat, and there was a man on the beach, drenched and naked.

_Dean._

Castiel was running down the stairs before he knew it, scrambling winded over the uneven ground. He fell, scraped his palms raw, kept going, stumbled again. He watched Dean struggle to his feet and stagger towards him, and Castiel could do nothing but hold out his arms in welcome.

"How?" he breathed into Dean's wet hair, tasting salt and not knowing whether it was seawater or tears or both. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I'll always know," said Dean, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, only took me five months to write 7300 words! Thoughts? Feels? Kitten gifs? All are welcome.


End file.
